


Have a very Rinch Christmas

by Dhae



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Domestic, Everybody Lives, Everybody lives but Root, F/M, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Surprise Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-05 01:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 20,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dhae/pseuds/Dhae
Summary: A look back - and forward - at Finch and Reese's relationship, through the lens of christmas. There will be angst, it's post-canon, but it's christmas; there will be a happy ending, I promise!





	1. Holiday decor

At first Finch thought John was bent over something small and explosive. He was right, of course, albeit not in quite the way he expected.

He’d come into the library later than usual, due to an early snowfall. Followed by the traditional chaos of people unprepared for slick roads. So it wasn’t a complete surprise that John was already there.

Big and solid, and curled into a near-ball over whatever was on the table.

John leaned back a fraction, and something flapped across his hands before being hidden from Finch’s curious eyes again.

Finch shuffled closer.

“Morning, Finch,” John said, not turning away from whatever was on the table in front of him.

“Mister Reese,” Finch replied. “What are you…”

“Do we have a new number?” John interrupted, still not turning around.

“No. No, not yet.” Finch moved closer still. Now he could see something small and white between John’s hands. Was that… paper? He yanked himself back to the conversation at hand, swallowing his curiosity for now. “The weather seems to have given the criminal element better things to do than kill each-other.”

John shrugged broad shoulders. “They’ll be getting back to it in no time.”

Finch crept closer to those shoulders, almost touching as he leaned in to peer at whatever it was John was doing with his hands.

“What is that?” The words were out of his mouth before he was even aware. Letting his guard down around John was turning into a bad habit.

In John’s big hands were cradled something that looked like a porcupine mated with a star. He was fiddling with one long paper quill, folding and squeezing and pulling it carefully, leaving it dangling where it would, and turning the porcupine-star a quarter round and repeating the process. His fingers, scarred and calloused from guns and violence, looked far too large to work something so delicate. The incongruence made Finch breathe in deeply.

“I’m fletting stars. 

Finch’s eyebrows climbed at the unfamiliar word. “Flatting?”

John smiled crookedly, the porcupine-star now looking more like a starfish, paper quills spreading out from the points to lie flat across his palm. “Fletting. It’s a danish word. I think it means braiding, but it’s the one they use for making these stars.”

Finch made a concerted effort to compose himself in the face of the odd, eight pointed starfish-star. “I see. It’s a very… interesting shape.”

John grinned outright, now. Turned and picked up something else from the table. He did something swift and subtle to the star, then held out his hand, palm down and fingers curled loosely around the star, clearly expecting to hand it to Finch.

For a second, Finch hesitated. Then he held his hand, palm up, under John’s, and was rewarded when a star was deposited into his hand as gently as snow falling, John’s fingertips trailing briefly across his skin.

Now Finch could inspect the thing to his heart’s content. It had lost it’s starfish arms, and was now - while still an odd shape - distinctly star-shaped. And delicate. Eight sturdy triangular points jutted out to make a kind of a flat base, on either side of which four points curled up like gentle paper-waves.

“Oh,” was all Finch could think of, and when he looked up, John was smiling at him, eyes deep and kind enough to drown in.

“We laid low in Denmark one Christmas. Nice people. So long as you understand a little danish, they don’t care if you do nothing but grunt and nod and smile. They have these starstrips to make these stars with, and I was bored. They’re kind of addictive to make.” John’s smile grew bashful, and he opened a drawer in the old card catalogue behind him, pulling out an impressive string of stars. “And I just thought this place could use a little holiday cheer, seeing as you spend so much time in here…”

Finch was at a loss for words. He looked at the string of stars. At the one in his hand. At the desktop where the amputated starfish arms were littering next to the scissors that had done the cutting. At John’s hands, calloused and scarred and more gentle than Finch could have ever hoped. And back at John’s face, which was now falling, like a dog waiting to be punished even though it has no idea why it’s owner is upset. And Finch would do anything to take that look out of John’s face. Anything at all.

“Quite right, mister Reese,” he said briskly, and watched as John’s eyes filled with a cautious hope. “Quite right. And since the Machine has no new number for us, what better time to do a little decoration.”

Now John was fighting a smile, and it created a wonderful warmth in Finch’s chest.

“And perhaps you can show me how you make those stars. It seems strange that a few strips of paper can become so… three-dimensional.”

And John stopped hiding his smile.


	2. Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here cometh the angst. I told you it was post-series. No worries - we’ll be back to fluff again tomorrow. <3

The noise around him fell away. The press of bodies at the christmas fair vanished. He reached out a trembling hand to gently grasp the battered and yellowed star. It was a paltry prize among the multitude of other, finer stars in the basket, but this was the one he wanted. 

He cradled it in his palm, and paid for it in cash, too busy looking at his star to notice the pitying look the seller gave him. 

“Harold?” He barely heard her beloved voice. “What did you find?”

He looked up at her. Fiery red hair going grey down the middle. “A star,” he said simply, and held it out for her to see. 

She looked surprised for a moment, then accepted the mystery with her usual grace. She closed his fingers around the star, and added her own fingers to the loose fist. “Come on, Harold. Let’s get out of here.”

They found refuge in a familiar café, and supplied with hot drinks, Grace asked again. 

“Do you want to tell me about it, Harold? It’s obvious it means something to you.”

Harold wasn’t sure how to explain. Not sure how to begin, really. The five years he’d spent exiled from Grace sometimes seemed too fantastic to be real. He was in no doubt as to their reality, of course, but it did rather seem like something more suited to a book or a movie. 

John had been one of those fantastic things. A good man, strong and capable, with a moral compass that hardly deviated from true north. Grace had met him, of course, a few times. But after… after what happened, Harold didn’t want to talk about John. 

Remember him. Oh, yes. He could hardly avoid that, even if he’d wanted to. Nightmares still plagued his sleep, but worse were the rare dream where everything worked out, and they both survived. Not even waking up to Grace lessened the pain of waking up from those. 

But this little star in his hand. It brought back memories. More than he could contain, he found. 

“It’s called a Froebel star, and mr. Reese was quite fond of weaving them.”


	3. You better watch out

It had been a bad few months, and John had fought to get them all together in the subway station - the only place they could count on being safe from Samaritan any more.

But, here they were. Fusco was nursing a cup of cocoa. Shaw was dividing her attention between Root and Bear. Root had eyes only for Shaw, and John brought them two glasses of festive punch.

Finch tried to push away his worries about the future. “You’ve got all your chicks under one roof,” John observed quietly as he handed Finch a glass of punch, keeping one for himself.

“And I am grateful,” Finch murmured back. “Still.”

“Still,” John agreed and looked at the others. Root and Shaw were giggling about something, getting handsy with each other (who knew Shaw was ticklish, really?). Bear had abandoned the ladies and was having his ears rubbed by Fusco. He looked back, over his shoulder at Finch and John, tongue lolling out of his grinning jaws. Fusco was too busy telling Bear secrets to notice.

They’d all contributed something to the day. John’s Froebel stars were everywhere. Finch didn’t know where he found the time to weave them all. Root had hung pine garlands in doorways and wherever else they’d fit, festooning them with well-hidden (and oft-moved) sprigs of mistletoe. They’d turned moving around into something of a hazard.

Shaw had supplied the festive punch, the hot cocoa and a mess of foodstuffs.

Fusco had been the biggest surprise. He had brought gifts for all of them, even Bear. This kind-hearted man with an alimony and a child to support had found the time and the money to buy all of them gifts.

So the least Finch had decided he could do, was bring in a tree. It had been something of a challenge, but with distraction from Bear and using John as a pack-mule, he’d managed.

If he was honest with himself, a serious perk had been the sight of a flushed and mussed John, littered with pine-needles and a few evergreen twigs.

Now the tree twinkled in the corner, gifts underneath. And John was standing beside him, looking very put together. Unlike Riley, who was often sporting a five o’clock shadow at all times of the day, John was clean-shaven tonight. Finch very much approved the extra effort.

Root was now whispering in Shaw’s ear, and Bear had surrendered entirely to Fusco’s clever hands, rolling onto his back in very indecorous fashion to give the detective full access to his belly.

He glanced at John out of the corner of his eye. John looked… content, Finch decided.

It was reinforced when John turned his head to look back, and a lazy smile warped soft lips. “It feels good,” John said. “Doesn’t it?”

Finch could only stare at him and nod. It felt very good, knowing that everyone were safe. But it felt as good to see the peace in John’s face. Read the relaxation in his shoulders, and the contentment in his eyes. Finch found that he very much wanted to give John this peace every day - but he knew that it would never be so easy. John wasn’t made to be put on a comfortable shelf for decorative purposes - although he was so very decorative, Finch felt. No, he needed to feel useful. Needed a purpose in life.

Finch could relate. He, too, had never fared well while idle. But then again, he’d never been what anyone would call ‘decorative’.

But John. Oh, John was something different. Nathan had been a very handsome man in his time, to be sure, and Finch had loved him dearly. But John… Yes, John was something else. Tall and well-formed. He was not so lean as he’d been in the beginning, and Finch took some pride in the softening of his stomach. His face was handsome, his eyes forever shifting with his moods. From storm-tossed grey to deep and warm tropical seas.

Yes. Finch could wax poetic about John at great length. He tried not to, however, and drained his cup to keep himself from going on.

“Another?” John held out his hand for Finch’s cup, having drained his own as well.

“I believe I should check up on the foodstuffs. And I suppose it’s my turn to bring you a drink, is it not, mr. Reese?”

“I’ll come with you,” John said conversationally. “You might need someone to fetch and carry. Again.” He cast a sly glance at the spruce.

“Thank you,” Finch replied, and limped towards the kitchen area. John fell into his customary step with him, spurring Finch on, while making it seem easy and natural for his long legs to move at a cripple’s pace. For a split-second Finch felt a rush of grief and longing to be moving with as little care as John. Then he pushed it away again. Jealousy wouldn’t mar their relationship.

The small kitchen area was almost drowning in snacks. A bowl of fruit stood side-by-side with an enormous dish of candy.

“I’ll grab the snacks,” John suggested, “then you can get the punch.”

Thus loaded, they went back to the party. Fusco was talking on the phone with the soft expression that meant he was talking to his son. Bear had fallen asleep on his back, four paws sticking up. Shaw was telling Root some story that made her laugh , but Root never stopped watching Finch.

So it was unsurprising that she almost sprang up to stop them both as they moved under one of her garlands.

“What…?”

“Mistletoe,” she said by way of explanation and pointed upwards. “You have to kiss, now.”

Finch look at John like a deer in the headlight.

John took in that look, then frowned down at the brunette. “Not unless it’s okay with Finch,” he rumbled.

Finch blinked up at him and found himself having to catch his breath. He hadn’t expected to be given a choice, but he should have, of course. John’s noble heart would never hurt Finch if it could be avoided.

So the question became urgent when Root turned expectant eyes to him. “Well, Harry?”

It was. Of course it was. But John had given him an out, and maybe he should take it. But he very much wanted the kiss. Yet maybe that was an indication he should refuse it.

John’s eyes were infinitely patient. Was that a glimmer of… hope? “What do you say, Finch?”

Fusco joined the party, liberating John from the bowl and plate. “Come on, Glasses. It’s just a kiss.”

It was, of course. And it was so much more. But Fusco had pushed the scales by freeing John’s hands. Finch had had a bit of a one-sided love affair with those hands for a very long time. He wanted them to touch him. He wanted John to touch him.

“Yes,” he nodded. He would have said more, but his ability to form words abruptly vanished.

John cradled his deltoid in his right hand. His dominant left went to Finch’s head. With his palm cradling Finch’s right cheek his fingers reached back into his hair, the very tips gently curling onto Finch’s vertebra. Finch’s knees felt weak.

John’s face was coming closer, rapidly crossing the boundary where Finch’s eyes could focus on it. So he closed his eyes. And then John’s lips were there. With a ghost of an exhalation that sensitised them further. As if they needed that!

John’s lips were warm and soft and so very gentle. Finch reciprocated to the best of his ability. He exhaled slowly as the kiss ended, before opening his eyes again.

Fusco was turning away with the snacks, but the very tips of his ears were a revealing red. Finch felt sorry he was embarrassed, but he couldn’t feel sorry for the kiss. Not with the dreaming, distant look John was now sporting on top of the preexisting contentment. Not when John licked his lips slowly.

Root was fanning herself. “Whoo, boys! Warn a girl, would you?”

“Attaboy, John!” Shaw called across the station, and added; “Root, if you’re done matchmaking, get your cute butt back here!”

“For now,” Root called back. “For now, at least.”

And Finch was entirely too happy with the kiss and the happiness on John’s face to care in the least. He closed his eyes and smiled.


	4. Snowman

It was snowing. Fat, damp flakes, seeming on the edge of melting, but piling up thick on the ground in stead. Clinging to people and signs and cars.

Even New Yorkers found the weather miserable and stayed indoors.

But through the gathering gloom walked two men and a dog.

Bear was being his usual supportive self, giving Finch the confidence to amble on through the treacherous snow. And John was his usual dark, solid presence to his right.

Since the rooftop there had been a tension between them Finch didn’t know how to resolve. As if John was at once happy that Finch had saved his life again - and hadn’t quite forgiven Finch for saving his life again.

Finch knew the feeling as he hadn’t quite forgiven John for wanting to die again. While, at the same time, being grateful that he’d allowed Finch to help after all. 

They turned into the park. Bear had spent all day indoors and needed some exercise, and John had decided Finch needed a bit of airing as well. Finch couldn’t disagree. He tried to not miss the long, easy runs through the cities parks, but it took constant effort. Sometimes he slipped up and missed it so much it hurt.

So Finch walked on through the snow, pleased John had brought him boots to wear. John unleashed Bear and threw snowballs for him to chase.

“I love the snow,” Finch found himself confiding in John, who stopped momentarily before stooping to make another snowball.

“When I was a boy, I built snowmen with my dad in the yard.” Finch laughed. “You know Calvin and Hobbes? That was the kind of snowmen we’d build.” He took a few steps more, and Bear caught another snowball. “Less macabre, of course. We’d build families, or kids on sleighs. Once, I built a couple on the bed of my dad’s truck, helping a third climb onboard. My dad loved that one.”

He didn’t know what possessed him to share something so personal. The tension between them, perhaps. The fact that they seemed closer than ever. Maybe just the darkness and the snow that made it seem like they just might be the only two people in the world.

“Never really built snowmen,” John rumbled. “Plenty of fortresses, though.”

Of course he had, Finch thought. Building snowmen was primarily a solitary occupation. A snow fortress was much more useful for a group of playful boys.

The next snowball for Bear turned out too big to throw, and John started rolling it along the path.

“What are you doing?”

John looked up at him, but didn’t stop rolling. “Building a snowman.”

Finch looked at him for a few seconds, then went to the nearest bench and started rolling the snow on the seat into a ball.

“You too, huh?”

Finch didn’t reply, moving on to the next bench and using the snow there for a torso.

The snow was perfect for building. Wet and compactable. Soon the leather of his gloves was soaked through, and he wished for the woollen mittens of his childhood. Even wet through they still retained some warmth.

He knelt down to build the legs up, and soon a man was sitting on the bench, a snowy fedora askew on his head.

He turned to see what John was doing, and found him rolling a large ball closer. Finch had time to be alarmed that he might roll right across Finch’s snowman, but he should have known better. John rolled it to a halt inches from Finch’s man.

Bear was watching them, and Finch threw a snowball for him to chase.

When he turned back, John was on his knees, digging into his ball with both hands.

Finch’s knees were freezing along with his hands, and he thought about his closest apartment. He’d reveal that to John tonight, he decided. It had a fireplace and was stocked for winter with firewood and hot chocolate. And, as all of Finch’s safe-houses, with several changes of clothes to fit John, just in case.

John was about done, Finch realized. He’d turned the shapeless ball into a tall figure, kneeling, hands on knees, looking devotedly up at the snowman on the bench.

John looked up at Finch and smiled, and Finch found he had to smile back. What else could he do, in the face of this?

“Come on,” he said, and called Bear to heel. “We need to warm up and I know just the place for it.”


	5. Believe

Looking back, Finch should probably have caught on sooner. His local, Italian paper ran an incongruous article on crime statistics in New York. A journal of surveillance and big data ended up in his mailbox; by mistake, the publisher swore, despite the correct address. A BBC series on mass surveillance made it onto his streaming-service, and kept popping up no matter what else he watched. 

To his shame, Finch didn’t put the pieces together until the day the phone rang. 

“This is Harold,” he answered cautiously. 

“My name is Thomas Barstow. I’m a physician at the Whispering Pines facility. I’m looking for a… Professor Whistler? Harold Whistler?”

Well, that alias certainly set the timeframe he was working with. “That is me,” he confirmed.

“Great. I’ve recently taken over care of one of our patients, and upon reviewing his file, I noticed that you are listed as the next of kin, and haven’t been notified of his condition? It’s something of an oversight, I’m afraid.”

A man? At some kind of medical facility? It might be Fusco, Finch thought, and tried to move things along. “Well, accidents happen.”

“They do indeed. I’m sorry, but I just don’t know how to say this…”

“Please be blunt, Doctor.”

“My patient is listed as a ‘John Riley’.”

Finch’s heart skipped a beat. It couldn’t be.

“What… how is he?”

“Well, he isn’t doing too bad, physically. He has some lingering weaknesses - he was found suffering from multiple gunshot wounds, severe blood loss, and some compression trauma. What is most troubling, however, is his amnesia. I suspect that’s why he didn’t know to have anyone call you.”

“Oh,” Finch said, and tried to find his feet under him again. Instead he groped for a chair and sat down. 

“We’ve done repeated tests, but there is no medical reason for his continued memory loss. This indicates that it might be traumatic, which, as you probably know, means his memory can return at any time, or not at all.”

“I thought… I thought he was dead,” Finch confessed. “I was told there were no survivors in the building.”

“That I can’t explain, Professor. As I said, I’ve just taken over his care, and I thought you should know.”

“Thank you, Doctor… I’m sorry. What was your name again? And may I have an address and some information about your visiting hours? I believe I should visit.”


	6. Fireplace

Bear is curled up on his bed by the fire. Finch is warm right down to his toes again, dressed in a luxurious pair of pajamas, a thick dressing gown and comfortable slippers. He’s sipping the hot chocolate John insisted on making while Finch got changed. 

Bear’s head snaps up as Finch hears the door behind him open. Good. John must have changed as well. Finch is curious as to what he’ll have chosen to wear. And then he stops being curious as John passes him by to go into the kitchen to fetch his own chocolate, and Finch has a glorious view. 

John has opted for a pair of pajamas pants which are, in retrospect, perhaps too tight to be comfortable for sleeping. Comfortable enough for sitting, though, and Finch appreciates the effect they have. On top of that he’s put on a t-shirt, but he’s kindly tucked it into his pants. Finch would ask if he isn’t afraid of getting cold, but his eyes are too busy taking up mental space to allow his mouth any. 

By the time John returns, Finch has unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth, but it doesn’t last, as the front view is as decorative as the backside one. He seeks shelter in his mug of chocolate. 

John sinks into the couch beside Finch, proving that it really is rather small. “Thanks, Harold.”

Finch doesn’t know if he means the chocolate, the fire, the clothes or the location of the safe house. It doesn’t matter. The answer will be the same. “You’re welcome, mr. Reese.”

For a while they watch the fire, and sip their chocolate. Talk about this and that, and it’s comfortable. Homey. 

Eventually, John puts his mug down and stirs himself. “I suppose I should get home.”

It’s a ploy so obvious a former agent should be ashamed of himself. And Finch should shoot it down without a thought. 

But the evening has been lovely, and they’ve reconnected once more, he feels. He doesn’t want it to end, to be honest. 

“You needn’t,” he replies. “Unless you want to.”

John swallows audibly. “There’s only the one bed, Finch. Unless you've held out on me.”

“Two beds, actually.” Finch corrects him. Not that he could know, given the large bedspread. “There’s two twins pushed together. We could easily separate them, unless you feel uncomfortable sharing a room.”

John turns, and when Finch moves to look at him, he’s deadly serious. “Harold. I wouldn’t be uncomfortable sharing a bed with you.”

All of Finch’s defences, built by years of justified paranoia and a too-active brain, bristled. And John immediately backed off. 

“But separating the beds sounds fine. I wouldn’t mind not going out again tonight.”

“Then, please. Stay.”


	7. Memories

“Harold.” Grace’s voice was gentle, as always, but also quietly implacable. “Please join me. I think we have some things to discuss.”

Harold put his jacket back in the closet without a word and joined Grace in the living-room. His dry-cleaning would keep. 

Grace had, unusually, chosen a chair, leaving one end of the couch as the closest option. Finch’s neck didn’t turn that way any more, as she knew, so he took the implied distance between them to heart and chose the chair opposite. 

“I’m sorry, Harold,” Grace opened. “I know you find this uncomfortable. But I think we’ve put it off long enough.”

Harold waited in silence. 

“It’s been a year since you came back into my life. I don’t know what happened to you, Harold. Until a few days ago I didn’t even know the real name of the man you worked with, or that he was dead, although I suspected as much. But the fact of the matter is: neither of us are the people we were six years ago.”

Finch nodded. That certainly was true enough. 

“Too much has happened, to both of us. And I’ve tried my best to let go of the anger and the grief and the sense of betrayal. But the truth is: I can’t. And to be completely honest I’m not even sure I should. Because you didn’t trust me six years ago, and you still don’t. You still keep secrets from me, Harold, and I wouldn’t be as upset about that as I am if you hadn’t proven you don’t trust me.”

“I -” Grace cut him off with a raised hand before he could complete his sentence. 

“Don’t. Please. I can forgive you for a lot of things, but don’t lie to me.”

Her face softened, as Finch’s confusion became apparent to her. 

“Oh. You don’t understand.” She smiled, small and sad. “You never even gave it that much thought, did you?”

Finch was still confused. “Please, Grace. Explain it to me?”

“One last time, then. You see, you made the decision to stay away from me; to pretend you were dead. I know you had your reasons. I know those reasons seemed good to you. But it meant you made the decision for me as well. You didn’t trust me to decide for myself. You didn’t trust me enough to explain to me and let me make up my own mind. Do you see? You decided for me that I couldn’t handle what happened to you, and that you’d just… play dead.”

“It wasn’t safe for you to-” again he was interrupted. 

“Like I said, I’m sure you had your reasons. But I was engaged to you, Harold. I said yes to marry you. For better or for worse. If it wasn’t safe for you, then I didn’t want it to be safe for me, either. I wanted to run those risks with you. At the very least I wanted to be given the choice. But you denied me that. Because you didn’t trust me.”

“Grace, please!”

Her green eyes were bright with unshed tears. “No, Harold. I’m sorry. I’ve tried. I’ve given it a year. I promised myself that I would. I’m very happy that you’re alive - but I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be in a relationship with a man who doesn’t trust me. And you still don’t. You’ve been making sure all your old suits have been dry-cleaned, and you’ve been pulling things together as if you’re about to go on a trip somewhere, yet you haven’t told me a thing. Are you going somewhere, Harold?”

Finch took a deep breath and released it. Grace wasn’t wrong in her accusations. He had been keeping secrets. It was difficult to stop, after so many years where keeping secrets were vital to his survival. And for some odd reason hearing her say it’s over wasn’t as painful as he’d have expected. He poked the missing emotion inside of him, and found… nothing. 

Grace was still waiting. “I’m going to New York for a few days. Maybe longer.”

Grace looked so terribly sad, and Finch wondered why it didn’t twist his heart as it once would have. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“When were you going to tell me, Harold? Do you see why there really isn’t an ‘us’ anymore?”

Finch did. But he had something to say first.

“I still love you, Grace. I suppose I always will. It’s just… at some point I guess I… fell out of love with you. And I couldn’t get that back, no matter how much I wanted it.”

He got up, crossed over to her, and got down on his knees in front of her, taking her hand when she offered it. 

“I’m so very sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. But I have had too many secrets, and that’s my mistake. After this, let’s both move on. I’d still very much like to try to be your friend. But let me first explain something about what I’ve done, and why I’m going to New York tomorrow.”

Grace nodded. 

“You see, Mr. Reese might be alive, and I owe him everything.”


	8. Music

Finch had reached a conclusion. In December christmas music was unavoidable in any kind of enclosed public space. Save a select few libraries. 

Unfortunately the airports on his way were no exceptions to the rule. Finch suffered through the cacophony through not one, not two, but three airports. And in between he remembered christmases past.

It wasn’t that Finch despised all christmas music. He just didn’t find the majority of it enjoyable. No, if he had his choice he’d chose christmas songs with a high musical quality. Not the twaddle that so often filled the air. Yes, Finch was a snob. He was quite comfortable with having taste, thank you very much.

John preferred the crooners with their sentimental invocations of home and hearth. Finch couldn’t deny that quite a surprising number of them did, in fact, have some musical qualities. But even if he hadn’t, he’d have made sure to include a good number of them for the musical background at the Library. It was just good business practice to keep the employees happy.

Fusco liked almost anything he could hum along to. At least he spent most of the christmas month humming to anything and everything.

Shaw enjoyed novelty songs. Usually with a humoristic spin. Finch found most of them devoid of anything enjoyable, so they were usually banned from his airspace for the duration.

Speaking of - Finch briefly abandoned his reminiscence at a particularly egregious piece of music. He idly toyed with the idea of creating an automated program that, based on proximity, would hack nearby loudspeakers and either turn them off, or at the very least improve their musical selection. He rubbed tired eyes and conceded, wandering into a completely different song, that he would even take something that just made all the loudspeakers play the same song.

But that would attract too much attention, and Finch just wanted to get somewhere quiet and gather himself for whatever he’d find at Whispering Pines.

Joss Carter had liked children’s songs, for some reason Finch couldn’t fathom. Surely only children would? But Joss had gone her own way in everything. Nothing had ever really been the same after she died.

And then there was Root. Finch had never figured out her holiday preferences, but he could admit he’d never really tried. His relationship with Root had remained… complicated. Right up until her death.

The fact of the matter was; Finch wasn’t very good with people. Oh, playing a part, that he did very well! But normal human interaction without a character to play? That had been hard for him for decades.

Arthur and Nathan had made themselves his friends at MIT, despite the blank backstory and the confused explanations. Finch has learned to build believable backstories since. And Nathan had been the last man standing. Oh, he’d begun peeling layers off his secrecy with Grace, but there had still been far too many secrets between them for actual trust.

He’d never actually opened up to her, he can see that now. Not even after the machine apocalypse. He thought he could just put it all behind him - but tangled up in all of that were explanations Grace had needed, and he didn’t provide.

No wonder Grace claimed he’d never trusted her. She was absolutely right.

Utterly depressed and defeated Finch reached his destination; a hotel just down the road from Whispering Pines. As he climbed into bed and gratefully aligned his spine into pillows and mattress, he couldn’t decide if he was happy or sad that he hadn’t the time or the energy to visit immediately.

But tomorrow. Tomorrow he would see for himself. Tomorrow.


	9. Gift

Whispering Pines didn’t so much look like a medical facility, as an old-fashioned sanatorium. Low and sprawling in opulent grounds, it was obviously aimed at wealthy clients. The kind, Finch thought as he fought his way up the last few yards of the long, winding driveway, whose relatives did not arrive on foot. He wondered who was paying for all of this.

He’d woken very early. Jetlag, he supposed, and nerves, judging from the unrest in his stomach. He’d been tempted to use the hours to hack the institution, but he’d decided against it. He didn’t want to know. Since the call he’d been on a knife-edge between hope and despair, and it was invigorating to feel like that again. It rather indicated he might have become a bit of an adrenaline-junkie in the years of working with the numbers, but he didn’t care.

Nobody would suffer for this but himself. Besides, it reminded him of working with John, and that was a gift in itself.

He paused to catch his breath. It was a beautiful day, if cold. A thin layer of frost was thawing under the rays of the sun, but keeping the world under a white veil in the shadows. For just a minute Finch allowed himself to feel the agony of wanting to feel his frozen parts thaw under John’s warm regard. Then he shook himself and went inside. Being back in New York was clearly not good for him.

The foyer had a discrete information desk to the left, but was otherwise decorated much like the foyer of a hotel.

“May I help you?” A heavyset woman materialised to his right.

“Oh,” Finch exclaimed, startled. “Yes. My name is Harold Whistler. I’m here to see John Riley?”

She smiled, and her entire face transformed into something lively and pretty. “Oh, of course! Just a minute, I’ll page Doctor Barstow. I know he’ll want to talk to you, and he might as well take you to see John.”

While she typed, she kept talking. “We were all so happy Dr. Barstow found you. John is such a sweet man, but he’s been so alone. Nobody’s been to see him until now.”

“They talked about getting him a dog. We have a therapy dog that comes in a couple of times a week. John always ends up playing with the dog in the time he’s allotted. Do you know if he had a dog? Before, I mean?”

“Thank you, Christine. Professor Whistler, I presume?” A tall young man inserted himself between them.

“Yes,” Harold replied. “But please call me Harold. You must be Dr. Barstow?”

“Thomas, please. I’m sure you’re anxious to see mr. Riley - shall we?”

Barstow led the way, matching his pace with Finch’s. While they walked, he talked.

“By all accounts, mr. Riley was incredibly lucky. He presented with multiple gunshot wounds, and severe blood loss, and he’d suffered blunt force trauma consistent with falling quite a ways. In short, he came very close to dying.”

Well, Finch thought, the gunshots matched. And the trauma - perhaps he’d somehow gotten off the roof before the missile hit? He walked a little faster.

“Mr. Riley underwent multiple surgeries, but he was fortunate. He lost about a foot of his small intestine, and he’s got enough screws, bolts and plates holding his bones together he’ll never see the inside of an MRI scanner again, but aside from a slight limp and a minor weakness in his right side, I’m amazed he didn’t suffer more disabilities.”

They crossed over into a different wing. This one with jewel-colored walls and a bit more personality to the furnishings.

“Our long-term residents live here,” Barstow explained. “Of course, mr. Riley has undergone extensive physical therapy, and some retraining. In fact, we were about ready to release him on his own reconnaissance in the new year.”

Finch almost missed a step. “He’s ready for that? What about his memory?”

“He doesn’t remember anything up to or about the accident that injured him. But aside from the fact that he can’t access those memories, he are making new ones just fine. Still, there’s been quite a lot for him to relearn.”

Barstow stopped in the middle of the hallway. “Ah. Here we are. Mr. Riley is usually working out at this time of day. We didn’t know you were coming, so… well. Please, if you have any further questions…” he provided a business card. “Don’t hesitate to call.”

“Thank you,” Finch forced himself to say, and stayed rooted while Barstow turned and walked away. Then he took a deep breath. Time to face reality.

He opened the door in slow-motion, afraid of what he’d find. Expecting disappointment. But there, just inside, doing pull-ups. Finch unconsciously took a few steps closer. Sympathetic sweat beaded on his forehead and his heart beat as if he was the one doing pull-ups.

“John?”

John jumped down and turned.

“Yes?” He looked closer at Finch. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

Finch, to his embarrassment sobbed out loud. Just once. “Yes. You used to know me very well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys were *so lucky* I didn't end this chapter with a dinger of a cliffhanger. It wanted to. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it... :D


	10. Do you see what I see

Finch had barely slept, and he still wasn’t sure what he was feeling about yesterday, or the fact that John Reese was alive. 

Elated, obviously, and relieved, that John’s reward hadn’t been a lonely death on a rooftop. 

But he was also dismayed that John didn’t remember him. That seemed very wrong, even though he knew about the amnesia. 

He was angry, that a year had gone by before he’d learned of John’s survival. And puzzled as to how John had, in fact, survived. 

He’d spent the better part of the night ploughing through records, trying to track John Riley over the past year. What he’d learned worried him. As if he hadn’t enough emotions about all of this. 

John Riley had a far more complete backstory than he’d been originally provided by Root and her minions. And it had been altered. Now, John Riley had put in his 20 with the police force and retired. He was, for all intents and purposes, a real identity. 

Even Finch could only find hints at what had been done. Ghosts of other John Riley’s who might have been used to piece together the John Riley now residing at Whispering Pines. 

More disturbing still was the funding for the endeavour. John Riley had been employed by Ernest Thornhill after his retirement, and it was Thornhill who footed the bill. The Machine had apparently survived it’s final battle with Samaritan, yet it hadn’t reached out to Finch. That, too, was worrying. 

Mostly, though, Finch wanted to figure out what to do next. Doctor Barstow had more than hinted that John could leave Whispering Pines at any time, if he had someone to stay with him. But where? 

Finch had very few of the ressources he’d once had. Root had salted away a good deal of his money for him, which he’d since recovered. And, hoping for a future with Grace, he’d set about rebuilding his coffers. But everything else. His safehouses. The Library. Everything else was gone. John’s loft too, most likely. 

In the early hours of the morning, Finch went back to the records and looked up their old real estate. 

There, too, he had a surprise waiting. 

All but a few of them were now owned by Ernest Thornhill. 

Seventeen minutes past seven, Finch walked through the doors to the Library. It was cold and dark, but that could be remedied. Upstairs, books had been pushed off shelves, the old, cracked glass board was in a million pieces, and his computers were gone. But aside from that, there had been remarkably little damage done. 

On his way back to Whispering Pines, he called up Fusco, who was very happy to hear from him. Elated, even, when he revealed the news of John’s survival. Fusco had no problems taking a sick-day off from work to help out. “Listen, I’ve almost been bored only working one job. This is nothing. What do you need?”

That out of the way, Finch was ready to dedicate the next few hours to John. John, who lit up as Finch walked into the room. 

“Harold! I wasn’t sure you’d be back.”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

John’s eyes wavered. “People don’t always keep their promises,” he explained. 

“I always keep mine,” Finch promised him. “And I will never lie to you, John.”

John, far more mercurial than Finch had ever known him to be, brightened. “Good. So. What do you want to do today?”

“The weather is not too bad. Do you want to take a walk in the garden?”

About halfway around the small lake stood a little teahouse. John hustled Finch in there when they arrived just as the heavens opened. They sat down, rain pounding on the roof. 

“This reminds me of a rainy day. We’d been to the cinema, and you brought an umbrella. And teased me about bringing Bear.”

“Bear?”

“Our dog. You rescued him for me, but I suspect he always liked you best.” Finch smiled, reminiscing. “You could throw the ball further and wrestle with him when he brought it back.”

“I love dogs,” John confessed. “Can you bring him? Maybe I’ll remember him?”

“He lives with a friend of ours, now. But I’ll see if I can manage.”

John studied his hands. “Harold. You… you never said. But… we had a dog together. And it feels like… Like I know you.”

“You do. We were very close, John. Very close.” Finch remembered and added, belatedly: “Friends. Very close friends.”

John looked dubious. 

“John. While we’re on the subject. Your doctor told me that you can leave here anytime you want, if you’ve got someone to stay with you. I… I could stay with you. If you want.”

John didn’t look convinced, so Finch decided to up the ante. 

“I would very much like to take you places we both know. Where we both felt comfortable. See how you feel about them now.”

“Try and jog my memory,” John asserted flatly. 

“No. Not at all.” Finch fibbed without compunction. If it jogged John’s memory that would only be a bonus. “We could go elsewhere if you’d prefer?”

John flexed his hands together nervously. He didn’t use to have those kinds of tells, Finch thought. Something else lost along with the memory. 

“When?”

Oh. Finch realized the problem all at once. John didn’t know him anymore. He was a stranger. Would he want to leave and go somewhere alone with a stranger he’d only met twice? 

“Whenever you feel comfortable, John. I understand that I know you, but you don’t know me, yet. You need to get to know me again. And I need to get to know you as you are now. There really is no pressure.”

John stuck out his chin, stubborn and brave and Finch felt his heart clench. 

“Tomorrow, then. If you stay with me all day today.”

Finch smiled. “Of course I will.”


	11. Comfort and joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's see what the world looks like from John's perspective for a change.

John was confused. For a year he’d had no visitors save volunteers, and here a strange little man limped in and claimed to have been John’s close friend? Sure, he said he thought John had died, but still. Strange.

And John’s not sure about the friendship-thing either. Oh, he felt very comfortable around the little man, and every time he heard his voice something inside him snapped into place. As if all was right with the world while that voice was talking.

But the problem was that sometimes he felt too much around Harold. A tenderness inside him at the sight of Harold turning his entire body, rather than just his neck. A need to reach out and touch him with gentle hands. A desire… well. John tried not to think about the desire.

So he was willing to go with Harold. See what would develop.

He’d already discovered strange things about himself. Someone paid for his stay, yet didn’t come to visit? It wasn’t Harold; he’d been too earnest about his dismay at not knowing John had survived. (And didn’t that light an ember glow in John’s chest, knowing that Harold cared so much for him?)

They told him he’d been a police officer, but he'd been lucky his physical therapist had been in the army. One of the things that survived from his past life was some impressive muscle-memory that didn’t take kindly to people manhandling him.

Jada had taken it in her stride, though, and used it in his training. Between that, and Harold’s handicap, John wasn’t worried about his physical safety. His mental health, however - well. That was a different story.

But he’d take a chance. Judging by the butterflies in his stomach at the sight of Harold limping into his room, he wasn’t wrong to do so.

They’d agreed that they would go out today, and then Harold would take John back to the Pines. And depending on how it went, they’d make decisions from there.

John liked that Harold had phrased it like that. ‘They’.

Harold looked worried, but working hard to cover it with enthusiasm. Harold being worried worried John, but he firmly reminded himself he had a phone, he had money and he could leave any time he wanted to.

The first surprise was the black town car. Harold having money was no surprise; the suits saw to that. Harold getting behind the wheel himself - that was something else.

“Oh, it’s a rental,” Harry said as they got underway, and John asked. “It’s easier.”

The weather had turned grey and wet, and as they drove, Harold pointed out features of interest along the way.

Eventually Harold pulled over and they abandoned the car to walk two blocks to what looked like a cross between a church and a construction site. Harold led the way in through the scaffolding, and suddenly everything felt very familiar to John. He couldn’t access the memories, but he wasn’t surprised when Harold turned and ducked through a small door.

“What is this place?”

Harold flashed him a brief smile as he picked his cautious way over half a library of books littering the floor. “You asked me that the first time I brought you here as well. ‘The decline of western civilization’. And probably the one place you and I spent the most time.”

“In an abandoned library? What were we? Outlaws?”

Harold huffed a laugh and continued up the stairs. “In a manner of speaking. Neither of us wanted to be found.”

John was getting ever-more confused, but he gamely kept up as Harold unlocked a grate and slid it aside. Then he watched Harold get down on his knees to start a generator, which turned on the lights inside.

“What the hell, Harold?”

“I suppose one term might be vigilantes, but it doesn’t really do our work justice. I understand that I’m laying a lot on you right now, and I’m aware that it might not be the right way to go about things. But now that you’ve resurfaced, as it were, there are things you need to know. About who we were, and what we did.”

John took a seat on a couch that looked brand-new, facing a covered-up window and a desk almost covered in computers. Computers Harold immediately started fussing over. This, too, felt very familiar.

The one thing that seemed out of place (which was crazy, as he didn’t remember anything) was a large flat-screen television on a stand. It stood beyond Harold’s computer-setup, and at a height that would make it more comfortable to watch standing up. He supposed the discomfort he felt about it might be because it was so stupid; who’d want a TV you couldn’t watch from your couch?

Then again, this place wasn’t exactly your average living room. John got up and poked through the books on the shelves. He just knew there was a kitchenette and a bathroom down this aisle (and was right). But it was disturbing to know things without remembering how he knew them and he quickly abandoned his exploration. Instead he picked up a thick, blue book and brought it back to where Harold was still typing.

He settled down to read a little, discovering that the book he’d chosen was apparently about stress fractures in titanium.

After about half an hour, Harold surfaced again. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to set this up yesterday, so it took a little work.”

“Not a problem, Harold,” John said and got up to rest his hand on Harold’s shoulder. He didn’t know why that felt so right, but he was getting to the point where he was ready to stop questioning it. “What have you got?”

Harold took a deep breath, then swiveled his chair towards John. “I need you to promise me something. I need you to tell me if this all gets to be too much. It will be a lot to take in, even if I only impart the most basic of informations. But I’d rather you continue on without knowing any of it than be... distressed.”

“But you said I need to know.”

“I believe you do, yes. But it’s been a year and your iden… I mean, nobody’s come to…” Harold took another breath. “What I mean to say is that you’ve been safe. It is entirely possible you could live out the rest of your life and nothing bad would happen.”

“Lay it on me, Harold. I’d rather know.”

“Alright.” Harold touched his keyboard, and the standing screen lit up. He went over to stand in front of it, and John joined him. At a tap on the screen, a picture appeared. A much younger John Riley in military uniform, smiling at the camera with a young, blonde woman. They looked happy, John thought. Harold looked grim.

“The name you went by when I worked with you was John Reese. It wasn’t your given name, I can tell you that much, but the one you preferred. And the name you knew me under was Harold Finch.”


	12. Gingerbread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, who am I kidding - I can't wait to show you this chapter! :)

John had been reeling when Finch returned him to the Pines after spending most of the afternoon in the library. Finch had tried to limit the information overload as much as possible, and had insisted on several breaks where they left the library. But once you picked at a thread the whole thing wanted to unravel.

He’d promised to give John the morning, which gave Finch the opportunity to do some further digging. The deeds to the library, John’s loft and several other safe-houses had been transferred to a “Harold Bunting”, an alias Harold hadn’t created. In addition, all paperwork for the alias was delivered to him, at his hotel room. The Machine hard at work, Finch supposed. Well. It was comforting to know it was still ticking along, even if it no longer needed it’s creator.

He also tracked down Shaw which, unsurprisingly, was something of a challenge. She was working in search and rescue out in Colorado, but she volunteered to bring herself and Bear back to New York as soon as possible. Which, given that she was currently trekking across a mountainside in the snow-covered Rockies, might take a few days.

With the deeds in hand, Finch felt a great deal more comfortable, and he set about furnishing John’s loft again. If he wanted to live anywhere, it might as well be the place he’d once regarded as his home. He knew John had never expressed any kind of sentiment towards his living-arrangements, but he believed the loft had meant something to his friend.

His morning thus spent to the dregs, Finch set off for the Pines again. Equal parts eager to see John again, and nervous that he’d decided it was all too much, and wouldn’t want anything more to do with Finch. Harold would accept that, of course he would - but he’d rather not have to.

John was in the foyer when Finch arrived, chatting away with Christine, the receptionist. Or whatever she was. But he lit up when he saw Finch, and Finch’s lips curved in response.

They met up with Fusco for lunch, and although it started out awkward for all three of them, Fusco’s interpersonal skills quickly came to the rescue. Before they left, he was using nicknames again, and John was laughing at his antics. Finch was quite pleased with how it turned out.

“Would you like to see another place you used to know?” Finch asked. “Or do you need a break from your past?”

John looked at the drizzling rain. “Well, we could go for a walk, but, yeah. I think I prefer somewhere indoors.”

Finch would have sworn he wasn’t trying to jog John’s memory. He’d gotten a box, just like the original, because he wanted to watch John receive his gift this time around.

The surprised pleasure at the little square box was exactly the same. He could only imagine the puzzlement at opening it and finding a key was as well. What followed, however, had certainly not happened the first time. John gave Harold a sly look. “A key, Harold? Isn’t it a little early to give me the key to your heart?”

To his utter embarrassment, Finch blushed. Hard. And as usual, when he got embarrassed, he snapped. “You needn’t accept!”

“Oh, no, Harold. This is one key you’re not getting back!”

Finch had to pull over. Fortunately they had reached the loft.

“Come inside, John. I’ll show you what it unlocks.”

John’s look at that undid all of Finch’s composure.

***

The loft looked good. Quite close to the way it originally looked. Finch decided to give the movers a hefty bonus for a job well done. John looked almost undone by all the space.

“Do you like it?”

“I… Who lived here?” John seemed puzzled by something.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m… Harold, you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

Finch buckled down for whatever was coming down the pipeline. “Try me.”

“I’m thinking this closet is the perfect place to store some weapons.”

Finch was startled into laughing outright.

“What?” John asked crossly. “I told you you’d think i was crazy.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that… that closet was exactly where you stored your arsenal at home.”

John abruptly sat down on the couch, and Finch wasn’t sure if it was luck.

“Harold,” he said, then seemed to run out of worlds. Finch joined him on the couch.

“Yes, John?”

John’s eyes were full of wonder and a little bit of fear as he turned towards Finch.

“Harold. I think I’m starting to remember something!”


	13. Frost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short little chapter today - tomorrow's will be longer, I promise!

After the elation of yesterday, Finch was eager to return to John’s side. And John was as eager to return to people and places that might spark more memories. 

Well. Ghosts of memories, at any rate. He still couldn’t voluntarily remember anything, and specifics eluded him. But he knew places. Places like the library and his loft. 

“If I move into the loft, will you stay with me, Harold?”

“If you want me to? It’s not exactly set up for dual occupancy.”

“I don’t mind,” John said, and looked out of the car window. Unlike the previous days, the weather had cleared, and frost was painting the world. “Can we go to the park today?”

“Central Park?” Finch asked, already planning a route before John nodded. “Certainly.”

They went for a long, leisurely stroll. Sitting down on park benches, when Finch needed a break. Talking about life, the universe and everything. 

“So can we?” John eventually asked, after they’d eaten something spicy and hot and walked even more. 

“Hmm?” Finch was distracted by a pair of swans rubbing beaks and necks together in a reaffirmation of their partnership. “What?”

“Move, Harold. Today.”

“Oh. I didn’t…” Finch cut himself off. “Of course. We should return to fill out whatever paperwork is required before everybody leaves for the day, then.”

The actual moving was surprisingly easy. John had little more than clothes to pack, and little enough of those. Finch was still mostly living out of his suitcase. So after packing down two rooms, they headed for the loft. And that was when Finch realised. 

“Oh,” he exclaimed to no one in particular. 

“What?”

“I just remembered. We never got an extra bed for the loft.”

John smiled, crookedly. “I won’t mind sharing a bed with you, Harold.” Then he stopped smiling. “Unless you…”

And Finch, private person though he was, couldn’t bear to deny him. “We’ll manage,” he asserted, and watched John relax into the seat once more.


	14. A beautiful sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, what can I do to make John happy...

John woke up, warm and comfortable. As every day he took stock of his body before he moved. Everything was fine, but his left hand was off somewhere doing something on it’s own. Something that left it warm and happy.

He followed his arm across the mattress where it snaked out from under his own cover and underneath Harold’s cover. Huh.

He took a moment to appreciate the covers. Harold had called them dyeneh, and told John that he’d actually been the one to introduce Harold to them. Thick and fluffy with down, they were light as clouds and warm as layers of blankets. And they each had one, which meant there had been no fighting over the covers during the night. John might never want another bed.

His hand, though, rested somewhere warm. A little judicious feeling around revealed that it had found Harold’s hip all on it’s own.

Oh. Well, he had been flirting with Harold, despite how briefly they’d known each other - but this was stretching things a bit. Even if the thought crossed his mind that he might never want another bedmate, if this was how Harold made him feel.

He withdrew his hand cautiously, then rolled over on his other side. Harold looked too enticing in the pale morning light; sleep creased and soft.

For a while John lay on his left side, left hand still tingling. Then he decided he might do something rash if he stayed in bed. He got up, got dressed and went for a short run.

He came back to a dishevelled Harold. “Where did you go?” and “Why didn’t you take your phone!” seemed to be the main points of concern.

“I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “I didn’t think. I’m not used to having someone care where I go.”

Harold softened at that. And that, of course, was when he noticed the bag John had brought.

He softened further at the smell of green tea and the sight of glazed doughnuts.

“I thought we could go to the park today,” Harold put forth, once they’d both showered and gotten dressed.

“Sure,” John agreed willingly. “The weather’s fine.”

They walked this time. It took about an hour, at Harold’s limited pace, but John didn’t mind it for a second. Harold was interesting no matter what he was doing. Today they covered classical science fiction (“You must read Left Hand of Darkness, John!”), the current state of surveillance “The Machine is still out there, only God knows how it’s working the Numbers now.”) and what kind of dog John might want.

That last one John had no opinion on. He just wanted a dog. Several, perhaps. He sort of liked the idea of having a whole pack of dogs of all shapes and sizes.

They walked across the Brooklyn Bridge and wound up in Prospect Park. Provided with a hot drink and a snack, they found a bench to sit on and watch the spectacle.

John particularly loved the multitude of dogs.

He had just finished untangling a man and a woman from two boisterous dogs (a dachshund and a spaniel), and turned around to check in on Harold. Only Harold had company. John frowned. A pretty brunette lady. Much too young for Harold! But she had a dog with her, so she couldn’t be entirely bad.

Distracted, she let the leash fall, and the rather large dog was off like a shot. John would have dived for the leash to catch it, but he didn’t have to. 30 seconds later he was flat on his back, being licked to death by a ferocious dog.

“Bear,” he said, laughing “Stop it.” Then he froze. Was that…?

“Bear,” he said again, experimentally this time. “Af.”

The dog got off of him, sitting primly in front of him, tongue lolling happily out of its mouth.

And then the memories came tumbling in. So many of them. Washing Bear with Harold. Walking Bear with Harold. Taking Bear to the vet with Harold. Wrestling with Bear in the library, Harold looking amused.

John was on his knees, hugging Bear close to him, crying into his neck, without even knowing he was doing it until it was done. “Bear,” he said. “Oh, Bear.”

A warm hand on his shoulder shook him out of it, he didn’t know how much later. Looking up, it was Harold.

“You remembered Bear,” Harold concluded. John nodded mutely. “How…?”

“Shaw took him, after…”

Beside Harold stood the brunette, looking kind of bored. “I love this reunion crap, I do, but I’ve been driving straight through the night to get here. Can we eat now, please?”

“Yes. Of course,” Harold said, providing Bear with a service vest, and leading the way.

“You don’t remember me do you?” Shaw said, as she fell into step with John.

“No,” John said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it,” she said. “I don’t care, to be honest. I’m kinda glad you’re alive, though. Finch was never really the same afterwards, and Bear took forever to get over losing the both of you.”

“So you’ll give him back?” John didn’t figure she would, but there was no harm in asking.

“Not a chance. He’s great at search and rescue.” She walked another few steps. “We might arrange visitation rights, though.”

“I’d like that,” John admitted. There was something refreshing about Shaw’s blunt demeanor. And he’d really like to see more of Bear. “I’d like that a lot.”


	15. Toy Soldier

The weather had turned wet again, and Harold had wanted to go to the library to… do something. With computers. John didn’t really understand it.

Harold had told him about the Machine, but it was vague in John’s head.

But John wanted to keep Harold happy, and it wasn’t as if going to the library was any kind of hardship. Today it felt even more familiar than last time. He could almost hear Bear’s claws clicking on the floors, and a soft whuf.

Shaw had left again last night; a couple of hikers had gone missing somewhere in Vermont. So despite her fatigue she’d packed up Bear and headed out.

But John didn’t mind having Harold to himself again. He wouldn’t have minded Bear, but Shaw was a step too far.

They’d shared the bed again last night, and John had woken up curled in towards Harold. He’d rolled over, and studied the ceiling for a while, telling his body that, yes, he got it, but could it please tone it down? Then he’d gotten up and gone for a run; remembering both to bring his phone and leave a note for Harold.

Today the books couldn’t hold John’s attention, and he’d already snooped around the building to his heart’s content. So he’d have to rely on Harold for distraction.

He wandered closer. Standing behind Harold’s shoulder, watching him work. Through Harold’s fingers code flowed. One line after another, smoothly shifting up and disappearing under the top of the screen. He rarely hesitated, and never for long.

“Yes, John?” Harold’s voice was mild, the tiniest hint of steel underneath. ‘Give me a satisfying answer or else!’ Something hard and well-trained stirred inside John in response. But it remained unseen, and it wasn’t the point at any rate.

“What are you doing, Harold?”

“Coding,” Harold said briskly, and kept typing. John sighed and prepared to go back to his couch. Or maybe do some exercise around the library. Anything to alleviate the boredom!

Then Harold’s shoulders bowed a fraction, and his hands paused. “I’m sorry, John. That was… unfounded.”

John’s heart quickened. “So you’ll tell me?”

“If you want to know. Or we can do something else? There are plenty of museums if you’d like?”

John planted his butt on the edge of the table, crossing his arms. “Oh, no. I want to know what you’re doing.” He kept smiling to take the sting out of his words.

“Well, to put it simply; I’m programming a game.”

John blinked in surprise. “You program computer games?”

Harold frowned. “No, that’s perhaps putting it too simply. I’m programming an AI that will run a computer game.”

“How does that work?”

“I’m programming an AI that will go through historic documents from a certain time period. The second world war, for example. It will then use those documents to build a model of the time, and the people. The more recent, the more accurate the model should be. Although, of course, one must allow for redacted or classified documents.”

“Oh, of course,” John nodded sagely, and Harold smiled.

“Yes. Well, that’s the basics. I’m thinking that the player can pick a conflict, a specific day during or up to that conflict, and a character. At current I’m thinking political and military leaders, but that could change.”

“And then what?”

“And then they’ll get to play through the conflict. They’ll get the same information as their actual character got, at the same time. But every choice they make will be modeled by the AI and consequences predicted. Let’s say that you play as Hitler, and you decide to not invade Russia. How does that influence the course of the war? How do the Russian leaders react?”

“That sounds interesting, Harold.” Not as appealing as watching Harold’s eyes light up with passion, but John would keep that to himself.

“And not just that, but every other character gets free will as well, as modeled by the AI. So you can play as Hitler, and order one of your ministers to carry out the Endlösung - but that minister might say no. Play as a general, and you might have a subordinate decide he'd rather take that village than the bridge you ordered him to. And those decisions ripple out and interact with the entire field. You do this, and news of it reaches London, and the British might not do that.”

“Okay,” John confessed. “Now I kind of want to play that game.”

“It’s in the very early stages, yet,” Harold apologized. “It won’t be ready for another year, maybe two.”

John’s stomach growled suddenly, and he glanced at his watch, doing a classic double-take when he saw the time. “In that case, Harold, do you think you could take a break? It’s definitely time for some lunch.”

“Well,” Harold said slyly. “You will need to keep your strength up.”

John frowned. “What? Why?”

“I’m going to need some servers in here if I’m serious about this game.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're going to *love* tomorrow's installment, I promise.


	16. Season's greetings

Finch woke up first on Sunday. That was a bit of a surprise, but he didn’t mind. It meant he could look at John sleeping. The joy of having John back, alive, washed over him in all it’s glory once more.

To fight the sappiness that threatened, Finch got out of bed, careful to not wake John.

He pulled out his laptop, wanting to check on the state of the world - in stead he opened up his main email to find a mail from Ernest Thornhill. Instantly alert, he clicked it open.

It was titled ‘Season’s greetings’ and it contained a single link. Finch did what he did best, and discovered that the link led to a server farm that was owned and run by Ernest Thornhill.

He replied to the email. “Is it safe?”

Almost instantly he received a reply. “Ye of little faith. Yes.”

That was when he heard John stir, and he closed his laptop to greet his friend. Whatever the Machine wanted, it could wait its turn. The living took precedence.

Half an hour later they’d been fed and watered, and Finch had explained the email, seeking John’s opinion.

“The Machine says it’s safe, I believe it.” He smiled crookedly. “Much like its creator it’s never lied to me.”

Well. Finch supposed that was true.

They sat down on the couch, pressed together, and Finch clicked the link. A world unfolded.

It took a minute to take in what they were seeing. An absolutely massive collage of pictures and letters. Finch clicked on a picture with some hesitation.

It was Judge Gates, posing for the picture with his very proud son in soccer-gear and -ball and hefting a huge trophy. John gasped.

“That’s… he’s a judge, isn’t he? I remember… smells. Sounds. A diner? Something about eggs?”

“Eggs Benedict,” Finch said, almost choking on his emotions. John was remembering! “And yes. Judge Gates. We saved him and his son.”

John’s eyes were wide with wonder, and far more alluring than the evidence of their success.

“Go on, Harold. Show me another!”

Finch complied, choosing a letter this time.

_To my heroes_

_My daughter turned two this year. Her name is Joss, and she’s a daily reminder of the three people who saved my life and allowed me to live it again. I remember the man who would stay behind so I could escape, and I remember the man who fought for me. And I try to help others to pay forward the help I once received. Thank you. I hope you’re as happy as I am._

_Theresa._

“Theresa,” John said. “She was just a girl, wasn’t she? Played dead for years.”

“Yes.” Finch was swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Yes, exactly.”

They went through about twenty of them before they needed a break. An open letter to them in some cases, in others just a picture, showing their numbers healthy and happy.

The one that made the tears flow was a picture of old Lou Mitchell, proudly behind the counter in his diner. Stencilled along the front of the counter were the words: ‘saved by Harold and John’.

They went through all of them. One by one. John remembered some of them - some of them better than others. Some made them cry (a heartfelt note from Taylor, thanking them for helping his mother). Some made them smile (Joey and Pia Durban with two kids and a third obviously on the way, in front of a farmhouse). But all of them made them feel.

They took breaks when they needed to. Went for walks. Ate. Showered. After the first few dozen, they started hugging, and they finished them all while being entwined in one way or another.

“So many,” John whispered reverently into Harold’s hair. Harold sitting in the vee of his thighs, leaning back on his chest, holding the laptop on his knees. “We helped so many people, Harold.”

“Yes. Yes we did, John.”


	17. Warm and cozy

At 2 am they were woken up by a pounding on the door. John woke, instantly alert, while Harold took a bit longer to come around.

Consequently, it was John who opened the door, gun in hand, to find an exhausted Shaw and a drooping Bear outside.

“Shaw.”

“Let me in, Reese, I swear to God, I don’t even care right now.”

“Please,” Harold said behind him, and all John felt was happy that Harold considered this his home as much as John’s.

Harold put toast on, while John quickly scrambled a frankly disturbing amount of eggs. They’d do for Bear too, in the absence of actual dog food. In a few minutes, food was put in front of the two of them.

Bear wolfed down his eggs, leaned heavily on John’s leg for a minute and some pets. Then he flopped over where he stood and went to sleep.

Shaw was still gobbling away. “Found one alive, the two others were dead.”

“I’m sorry,” John said, while Harold clarified; “I’d make coffee, but I didn’t think…”

“God no,” Shaw agreed. “I just need a place to sleep.”

“We don’t have an extra bed,” Harold apologized.

Shaw gave him a quick look at that, but John was the one to blush.

“It’s fine. I’ll take the couch.”

John found extra sheets, while Harold cleaned up the kitchen. By the time Shaw had finished eating there was nothing but her plate and silverware left.

“I’m going to sleep now,” Shaw announced and did just that.

John and Harold crawled back into bed. Then they lay, on their backs, listening to their two house-guests snoring softly for far too long. Eventually John turned onto his side, facing Harold

“We should be better at this by now,” he said conversationally.

“Having house guests?”

“Falling asleep together,” John clarified.

“We usually do okay,” Harold claimed.

“Usually we’re kinda tired, though,” John hedged.

“It’s almost three am. We should both be exhausted.”

John edged closer and lowered his voice. “I have a confession to make, Harold.”

“Oh?”

He edged closer still. “I always want to touch you when we’re in bed together.”

Harold’s eyebrows rose, then lowered. “I’m not stopping you, mr. Reese.”

Grinning like a shark, John closed the gap and wrapped his right arm over Harold’s middle. His head now sharing Harold’s pillow, his lips were almost brushing Harold’s ear as he husked: “This okay?”

He could almost feel the heat coming off of Harold’s red face, but Harold was made of sterner stuff. His left hand came up to trap John’s wrist, and he sighed.

“Quite comfortable, yes. Thank you.”

“No,” John said, closing his eyes. “Thank _you_ , Harold.”

Together they sank into sleep.


	18. Celebration

Shaw slept until lunch, so John and Finch had a very quiet morning, taking Bear out for a short walk when he woke.

By the time she finally surfaced, Finch cornered her as she ate.

“Would you consider staying over Christmas?”

Shaw’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Are you planning something?”

Finch fought a smile. “If you’re staying.”

“I might be.”

Finch’s eyebrows rose. “That sounded as if you’re considering a more permanent relocation?”

“Not to New York City,” Shaw clarified. “But yeah. I’ve thought about it. With you and John back - I might want to move somewhere closer.”

Finch hesitated. He had kept his ultimate bolthole safe and secret for decades. It felt wrong to give it up like this. Unsafe.

And yet - he looked at Shaw, who was still eating. He cared about her. More than he could have expected back when she was just a number. She’d grown on him in unexpected ways, and he felt towards her much, he suspected, as he would have towards a daughter. A terrifying, lethal daughter, with a disturbing lack of social skills. But still, always, fondness.

He looked at John, who was playing with Bear, teaching him to open the fridge door with a towel tied around the handle. The question was; did he really need that bolthole anymore?

The answer dawned on him like a sunrise.

“I have a house up in the Catskills,” he offered. “You’re welcome to it.”

“Really?” Shaw’s suspicion shouldn’t have been a surprise. “Why?”

Finch smiled, relaxed and easy. “Because I believe it would suit you. And because I hardly need it any more.”

“I’ll take a look at it,” Shaw offered. “But no promises!”

“I wouldn’t expect any.”

Shaw pushed away her, now polished, plate. “So you’re planning something?”

Finch debated whether to tell her. Then again, Shaw wasn’t fond of surprises unless they involved some form of violence. He’d known that from the start, and his attempts at teaching her had been less than successful. He still remembered her bitter threats during her and John’s trip to the high school reunion.

“A party,” he revealed, and watched Shaw’s eyes light up.

“Great! Where, when and who do you want?”

Finch laughed. His life had changed so much over the past year, and the absence of the numbers meant he could relate to Shaw and John and Fusco in a different way. Not to mention the weight that had been removed.

“Here, tomorrow, and just you, me, John, Fusco and Lee, if he’s at Fusco’s this week.”

“He’s at Fusco’s,” Shaw proclaimed. “He spends every christmas with his mom, so the week up to is Fusco’s.”

Finch frowned. “How do you know these things?”

“What?” Shaw looked up at him. “I ask.” And upon deciphering what was undoubtedly a disbelieving look. “I’m not that bad with people. Not people I know, anyway. Well. Not people I… care about.” She hesitated on the last words and looked disgusted at them.

“Oh,” Finch said, feeling exceedingly stupid. “Of course. Forgive me.”

“For what?” Shaw seemed genuinely confused, then moved on with customary efficiency. “Never mind. What can I do?”

“About what?” Finch almost jumped in fright at John’s voice right behind him.

“The christmas party Finch wants to throw tomorrow.”

“We’re having a christmas party?”

Finch removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. They might be having a party, but he was absolutely getting a headache. He’d forgotten how much energy Shaw and John together put off. The terrible twins were at it again.

They would definitely need both Fusco and Lee to diffuse the situation.


	19. Silent night

The party was going swimmingly. Lee and Shaw had bonded almost instantly over their love for Bear, and were currently entertained playing with him.

John was quite comfortable where he was; far enough from Shaw, Lee and Bear that he wouldn’t be dragged into their game. Close enough to Harold and Lionel to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Lionel had been promoted - detective first class, now. He was quite content with that. “I owe it all to Carter, you know.” And then, after a beat. “And you, too. I would’ve been a crooked cop until I retired if Mr. Fantastic over there hadn’t straightened me out.”

Harold nodded. “Mr. Reese has had rather a powerful impact on all of us.”

Fusco stared into his non-alcoholic eggnog. “So have you, you know.”

“Oh,” Harold replied, “I can hardly take credit.”

“You built the Machine,” Fusco explained. “You started working the Numbers. You set this whole thing into motion.”

Harold hesitated. “I built the Machine, that’s true enough. But I was inspired. And the Numbers… it all came from the same person.”

“Not you?”

“No. I can’t claim that. I had a friend. My best friend. He was the one to start it all off. We. We had such plans. We’d change the world. All we did was get very rich. And then the world changed.”

“9/11,” Fusco guessed, and Harold nodded.

“That was the beginning. I built the Machine, and taught it the difference between relevant and irrelevant - and then I let it go. Nathan…” Harold smiled faintly. “Nathan did not.”

John paid intense attention. He didn’t know if he’d ever known any of this, but he didn’t think so. It didn’t feel like it.

Harold continued quietly. “Nathan programmed in the backdoor to access the irrelevant numbers. He tried to help people - and when I found out…” Harold looked disgusted with himself. “I terminated his access. Locked him out.”

“If I hadn’t, maybe he hadn’t died. The Machine had his number.” Harold pulled himself back together. “Well. That’s neither here nor there. Nathan died, and I picked up where he left off, working the Numbers.”

“With Wonderboy.”

Harold turned laboriously to look at John, who threw his attention into the book he was leafing through. “Not at first, no. Although things changed drastically once he began working with me.”

‘With’. Not ‘for’. John almost preened. ‘With’ mattered. ‘With’ meant they’d been partners, not employer and employee.

“He has a way about him,” Fusco agreed, and John fought a blush.

“You never told me, detective; where were you on 9/11?” Harold had clearly had enough of sharing and wanted a little quid pro quo. John was curious about that, too, but he wouldn’t ask.

“I was out of town. My old man got sick while they were on a road-trip, so september 10th I was in my car heading to Kansas.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Fusco said brusquely. “My old man died on the 11th, and so did about a quarter of my precinct. I got back, and it was all pretty much over. I figure I’m one of the few New Yorkers who weren’t here when the planes hit.”

“It’s ironic, don’t you think. My dad dying saved my life.”

“I suspect your father would have considered that a fair deal.”

“Sure, that would be nice to imagine. I think he’d rather have outlived me, though.” Fusco sounded bitter, and John wasn’t surprised that Harold picked up on it.

“You weren’t fond of your father?”

“What’s to be fond of?” Fusco said. “He was a bully and he bullied the whole damn family.” He gave Harold a hard look. “What? You think I come naturally by my sweet disposition and fine-tuned sense for bullshit?”

Bear plopping his head on John’s knee distracted him from the conversation. His tongue was hanging out of his mouth, and he was breathing hard.

“Hey!” John yelled at Shaw. “Did you tire out my dog?”

“Your dog - my dog. He needs a break.”

“So I get to give him a break?” John made sure to project incredulity.

“Well… yeah.” Shaw replied, as if it should be obvious.

She joined him on the couch and nudged his hip with one socked foot.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“What are you going to do next? I mean, you can’t mooch off of Finch forever. Besides, having a break is great and all, but you’ll go crazy if you’ve got nothing to do.”

To be honest John actually had given that some thought. Not that he’d reached any conclusions, yet. And he was quite comfortable living with Harold. And a little worried that Harold would move out as soon as the spell they were weaving was broken.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Listen. I’ve got an idea. Bear isn’t as young as he used to be. He’s got a good year left in search and rescue. But he’s going to need a place to retire. A lot of K9’s need that. Some of them make wonderful family pets, but not all of them. Some need a bit of retraining, and some just never get there.”

John frowned. “What are you saying, Shaw?”

“It’s just an idea - but how about you work with former military dogs, or K9 units? You love dogs, and you’re good with them.”

John thought about it. He did love dogs, and there would be something nice about working with highly trained dogs. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll think about that.”

He glanced over to the table, where Fusco and Harold had now been joined by Lee, who was trying to convince them to play some kind of game. Poker, possibly.

He’d think about it, sure. And talk to Harold about it. Maybe it was time to take the bull by the horns and find out where his relationship with Harold was heading.


	20. Home

Finch woke up feeling worse for wear. And eggnog. Brandy. Mulled wine. And some concoction of Fusco’s he’d never touch again as long as he lived. He grimaced against the light and felt appalled at the fur in his mouth. But even that, the headache and the persistent nausea couldn’t mask the pleasure at waking up warm and held in John’s arms. 

Finch smiled. 

Then he frowned. While Lee had been fleecing the remains off of a surprisingly compliant John, Shaw had cornered him in the kitchen. 

“Finch. Listen. You need to begin making some decisions. I know John’s missing a lot of his memories still, but he’s going to get bored.”

Finch did know that, thank you very much, and because of the drink his filters weren’t what they usually were. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted helplessly. “I just… I want him to be happy.”

“With or without you, huh?”

Finch winced. “Preferably with.”

And that was really the first time he’d given it some thought. Oh, it was all well and good being noble and self-sacrificing. But Grace had taught him a hard lesson; trust beat out self-sacrifice any day. 

John yawned and stretched behind him, and Finch enjoyed every inch of him pressed solid and close. Not without a bit of guilt, but he was trying to get rid of that. Why should he feel guilty, when John was so clearly enjoying himself as well?

“Morning Harold,” John rumbled and patted Finch’s stomach gently. 

“Good morning John,” Finch replied courteously. 

John smacked his lips and exhaled a sigh on Finch’s neck. “You need to brush your teeth as badly as I do?”

“More, I fear.” 

“You go first, then,” John said and squirmed down another inch. Finch felt a brief pressure between his shoulder-blades, but what he really noticed was John suddenly going stiff and still. 

“John?”

There was a stronger pressure, broader, and Finch realized John had pressed his forehead to his back. Which made him realize that the pressure he’d felt just before had been John… kissing him. 

“I’m sorry,” John mumbled. 

“Are you?” Finch asked softly. “Because I’m not.”

John’s head appeared in his peripheral vision. “You’re not?”

“Not at all. But the question was: are you sorry about doing it? We can forget about it if you want. Go on as we have been.”

There was a gentle pressure on his shoulder, and he realized John wanted him to turn onto his back. And right at this moment there was nothing John could ask that Finch wouldn’t give. 

Once there, John handed him his glasses. Oh, Finch thought. So John wanted to be seen?

He looked… delectable. Sleep-mussed and creased and tired. But also serious and determined. 

“I’m not sure I can do that, Harold.”

Do what? Finch rewound mentally. Ah. 

“Being here’s been nice, but I’m starting to feel like…”

Finch’s heart was racing. Was he about to lose everything now? He would bear it if he was, of course he would. But he’d really hoped…

“I’m starting to feel like we need to find something permanent. Start something permanent.”

Start… Wait. What?

Finch sat up abruptly, forcing John to back away to keep from hitting him. 

“Are you… Are you saying…?”

John smiled crookedly and rearranged himself so he could free a hand to reach out and cup Finch’s cheek. “Yeah. If you want.”

“Oh, I want,” Finch replied before even engaging his brain. “And you…?

“I want too, Harold. Very much.” John was closing the distance between them, until only a breath remained. “Very much,” he repeated against Finch’s lips just before he kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww. You guys deserve a little fluff, seasoned with angst. Enjoy it while it lasts!


	21. Hopes and fears

“So what do you want to do next?” Harold asked lazily, soft and mussed under John’s hands. John enjoyed waking up a lot more now they weren’t hung over any more, and knowing that he could touch Harold to his heart’s content. 

“Hmm?”

“I’ve got no plans for the immediate future,” Harold clarified. 

“Hm,” John hummed and kissed Harold’s neck just under his jawbone. “I don’t know.” He pulled back a few inches, ran the question over in his mind, and frowned. 

“Why should I get to decide, Harold?”

“Why not,” Harold asked, still unfocused. 

“Harold.” Something in his voice alerted Harold to the fact that he was serious, and he woke up more fully, reaching for his glasses on the nightstand. 

“What?”

John thought it over again. It felt wrong to say it, yet he felt like he had to. “I just… I feel like everything we’ve done together has been about me. Getting me out of the Pines. Telling me things about my past. Helping me regain some memories. Moving into my old apartment. Everything. What do you want, Harold?”

“Oh,” Harold said and fell into a pensive silence. One that didn’t prevent him from continually stroking John’s side under the covers. John approved. 

“I suppose I see your point. It was not my intention, but I can see how you’d reach that conclusion. I’m sorry.”

John bit his tongue to keep from saying “don’t be sorry, just fix it!”

“It’s just that you’ve been so very helpful to me in the past, that I suppose… I’m thinking of this as a way to repay you. A little.”

John frowned harder. “This,” he asked and stroked his free hand up Harold’s chest. 

“Oh, no, never that John.” Harold was quick and vehement in his reassurance. “Everything but.” He hesitated. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“Now that I give it some more thought, I don’t believe repaying you ever crossed my mind until just now. I just… want to help you. Want…” He hesitated long enough that John wondered if he was done talking. “Want to make you happy,” Harold eventually whispered, and John had to kiss him at that. 

“Well,” John said once they came up for air again. “I want to make you happy, too. So what do you want to do next, Harold?”

Harold laughed joyfully. “Do you know - I’m not sure anybody’s asked me that question in years?”

John swallowed against a thickness in his throat. “You’d better get used to that, then, because I plan to ask it regularly.”

“I will, then,” Harold promised, and stirred. “Can I think about it over breakfast?”

“Sure.”

Breakfast was easy, and John thoroughly enjoyed the freedom to touch and kiss Harold at every turn. 

But eventually, they were at the dregs of hot beverages and the ruins of toast and eggs. 

“So?” John prompted. 

“It depends,” Harold hedged. “On what you want to do with the rest of your life. Have you given that some thought?”

“Shaw gave me a few ideas,” John confessed easily. “I think I want to work with dogs. In some way. Foster dogs, maybe, or be a retirement-home for professional dogs. Maybe train service dogs. I haven’t figured that out yet. But I think I’d like that. I like dogs.”

Harold smiled and reached over to hold his hand. “I noticed that. Then I’m thinking this place will not do, long-term?”

John shook his head, looking around. “It’s okay,” he said, coming to the realization as he spoke. “This place feels like it’s a part of the past.” He locked eyes with Harold. “And I’m more than ready to move into the future.”

Then he chuckled and covered his face with his hands. “I’m sorry, that was unforgivably sappy.”

He heard Harold’s chair scrape across the floor and off-beat footsteps coming closer. And then a hand was prying his face free. “Not unforgivable,” Harold said, leaning down close. “Never that.”

They kissed, long and tender, and at some point John maneuvered Harold to sit in his lap to take the strain off his hip. So that was how they surfaced again; Harold spread over John’s lap; heavy and welcome. 

“So,” John said after clearing his throat. “Were we coming to any kind of conclusion or anything?”

“I believe so,” Harold replied, and leaned into John’s chest, so trusting it made John’s heart ache. “What I was thinking was that I would very much like to move somewhere more quiet.”

“The suburbs?”

“I was thinking farther out,” Harold clarified. “I’ve offered Shaw the use of a house I have up in the Catskills; that might be a nice area to move to. Small towns, lots of space.”

John gave it some serious thought. He’d grown up in a small town, and gotten out as soon as he could. But age had mellowed him. Living in a place where everyone knew everyone might rub his ingrained habits the wrong way, but it appealed to his nostalgia.

“Maybe,” he hedged. “Let’s look at some houses out there, and we’ll see what we can find.”

“That suits both of us,” Harold made clear. 

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that. :)


	22. Feast

John was uneasy. He didn’t exactly know why, but suddenly every dark corner, every sudden sound and every glance his way was a threat. 

He spent the better part of saturday being on constant alert as he went around town shopping with Harold. 

They had a great time otherwise; going from shop to shop, laughing, jokingly keeping mock-secrets about gifts they bought for each other. It would have been a really nice day. If only he could shake the looming feeling that something was about to happen. 

He stepped onto the pavement and glanced to the right - and suddenly it hit him like a freight train. 

He remembered. 

He remembered looking at a man, thinking he had a family, children - and then shooting him dead anyway. 

He remembered torturing a man; beating him until his knuckles ached, until the man cried, and begged and told him everything. 

He remembered breaking a man like that: telling him that if he would just tell them what they wanted to know, they’d let him go. He remembered the betrayal in the man’s eyes the second before the bullet robbed them of emotions forever. 

John sank to his knees in the middle of the street, and Harold came to an abrupt stop, coming back to him. John barely noticed. 

“John? John?!?” 

He pulled himself out of the rising tide and reached out for Harold. “Please. Get me out of here.”

And Harold, grim-faced and determined, did just that. Brought him to the loft, but John hardly felt it, too caught up in his own ugly past. 

It was an unending parade of self-hatred and cruelty. A rising tide of darkness of his own making. And not just his own actions, though they were ugly enough. Slicing veins open, waiting for people to bleed to death. Carving flesh out of people. Mutilations and murders and at some point he’d stopped needing direct orders, and started doing it on his own. He’d stopped questioning. Stopped fighting. 

He felt dizzy and tight around the chest. Maybe he was having a heart-attack? It was almost tempting to think so. But of course that would be too easy. 

A shockingly cold cloth wiped across his face snapped him back into the present. 

“Finch,” he forced out of a tight throat, and watched Harold’s face fall minutely. 

“Oh,” Harold said. “You’re remembering.”

“So much,” John gasped. “So much.”

And Harold, tears in his eyes, reached out with one hand to hold his hand, and with his other to cup it around the back of his head, bringing their brows together. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

John would have wrenched free, but he didn’t have the strength. “How? How can you touch me - knowing what I’ve done? What I am?” He hated himself for asking, but it was the expedient way of getting Harold to let him go. The kindness was tearing him apart with the strength of how much he didn’t deserve it. 

Harold pulled back a little. Not letting him go, just letting him see the bedrock of determination. “What you are, John, is a good man. You’ve always been a good man.”

John made a hopeless sound, and recognised it as something between a sob and a laugh. “Good? You don’t…”

“I do,” Harold interrupted him. “I know everything about you, John. I’ve read every report, seen every picture. I know exactly what you’ve had to do.”

“But the point is: It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what you were forced to do. What you chose to do. What you came to believe you had to, or who you came to believe you were. None of that matters, John.”

“Nothing else matters,” John claimed, but his body was relaxing against his will. It wasn’t right that he should take any kind of comfort in Harold’s words or touch. It wasn’t right, when he had so much blood on his hands. 

“What matters is what you’ve chosen, once you were free to chose. You’ve never taken a life you didn’t have to. Never hurt anyone you didn’t need to. John.” Harold was absolutely convinced he was telling the truth. It was right there in his face. “You’re my moral compass. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

John hid his face away and sobbed. He would have to give Harold up. However much Harold believed that John was a good man, John knew better. He couldn’t stay. Sooner or later, Harold would realize how right John was and how wrong he was, too. How broken. Unworthy. Mean. Ugly. 

“John,” Harold said kindly, and pried at John’s hands. “John. Listen to me. I love you. If you believe nothing else, at least believe that.”

“I don’t…” John tried. “I’m not…”

“Do you love me, John?”

If he’d been a better man, John believed, he could have said no. Or a worse man, perhaps, given the hope on Harold’s face. “Yes,” he admitted. “Yes. Of course.”

“Do you trust me?” Harold asked next, and John had never known anyone he trusted as much as Harold. 

“Yes. God yes!”

“John. Do you trust that I know what you’ve done?”

Harold knew everything. It was an immutable truth. Harold knew everything.

“Yes.”

“One more question then. I know what you’ve done, and I still love you. Can you trust that?”

John struggled with his tongue. It took him a while. 

Harold knew everything. That was truth. Harold loved him. That was truth. But it was also true that nobody could love him, knowing what he’d done. Or at least… John didn’t love himself, knowing what he’d done, so how could anyone? 

Then again, Harold had the greatest capacity for love of anyone John had ever known. Maybe Harold could love him despite…?

But should he? Should John let him?

Harold shook him lightly by the nape of his neck. “John.”

Oh. Suddenly things fell into place. “I trust you,” John said as if it was a revelation. “I trust you, Harold.”

He didn’t understand Harold’s wry smile. “See? A better man than I, John.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain it later,” Harold promised, and John was grateful. His mind was exhausted by the roller-coaster he’d just suffered, and his body was relaxing out of it’s adrenaline high. “Take a nap, John. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The last thing John heard was the sound of Harold’s phone ringing. But he was too tired to make a note of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That got dark! Hang in there. We’re almost home safe!


	23. Nightmare before christmas

Sunday dawned grey and dreary. John was still struggling with this batch of returning memories, and Finch didn’t know whether to be glad or sad they’d waited this long to manifest. 

On the one hand, he doubted they’d have reached their current closeness without the absence of those memories. They seemed to be doing quite a good job of convincing John he wasn’t fit for company, at least. 

On the other, perhaps John wouldn’t have been so devastated by them if they’d arrived, mixed in with better memories. 

But the memories were there, and they had no choice but to struggle through as they could best. 

And on top of all that, the Machine had called Finch with a number. The first since that final showdown with Samaritan, to the best of Finch’s knowledge. 

“Eduardo McBride. 46. K9 officer for the past 4 years. He lives in Fordham with his wife and two children. Has no unusual outstanding debts and no history of anything untoward.”

“Must be our victim, then,” John opnined tiredly. “I’ll go keep an eye on him.”

“No. Wait. Let me look a little deeper into his background before you go, John.”

“What’s the point, Finch. The Machine was obviously waiting for me get my more useful memories back. So now we’re working numbers again.”

Finch flinched at several things in that. He’d gotten quite used to John calling him Harold. Had liked the fond warmth in his voice when he said it. Finch was said flatly and without inflection. “Useful” was spoken harshly, desperately. And the remainder… well. He’d gotten used to John being animated as well.

“Please, John. Sit down. Help me look.”

John sat down. He’d pulled on his coat, and now he seemed to sink into it. As if on the verge of disappearing. Really, Finch thought, the Machine had appalling timing!

Fortunately it didn’t take more than five minutes to find an interesting email. Officer McBrides faithful canine; a 7-year old german shepherd named ‘Olli’, was about to retire. Only McBride had ambitions that didn’t include being saddled with an old dog. The mail indicated his intentions of dumping Olli at the nearest shelter - kill or no kill, he wasn’t fussy. 

That, at least, sparked some life into John’s eyes. 

“Please go buy that poor dog,” Finch asked him, and John was out of his seat like a shot. 

They kept up a running conversation all the way to Fordham. 

John ended up putting the fear of God into the officer, and he brought the dog back with him without paying a penny. And Olli seemed, from John’s description, quite content to go with someone who spoke his language. 

As for Finch, he used the time to send a concerned email to McBride’s superior about officer McBride’s suitability to work with K9s. 

“So it wasn’t a threat to him,” John surmised, once they’d properly greeted Olli and gotten her situated, her adoring brown eyes following John around. 

“It appears not,” Finch agreed. “Rather, I think the Machine might have caught on to your desire to work with working dogs, seen that Olli was about to be dumped, and prompted us to take action.”

“Wow,” John said, and sat down next to Finch. “I’ve got to be honest, Harold. I’m not sure how I feel about working the Numbers again.”

“I am,” Finch said with conviction. “I don’t want to work another Number ever again.”

John looked startled. “Seriously?”

“Very much so. And to be honest, I don’t think we’ll have to. The Machine has dealt with them for more than a year without either of us. I believe it can and will continue to do so.”

“I guess you’re right. But you’re not…” John gestured vaguely. 

“Will you miss it?” Finch asked curiously. “Do you want to work the Numbers again?”

“No!” John said immediately. “It’s just…” he fiddled with the crease in his pants. “I don’t know. It was worthwhile. And…” He hesitated again. “It felt like. Like redemption.” 

“Oh, John,” Finch said and reached out to take his restless hand. “You don’t need to redeem yourself.”

John looked heartbroken. “You don’t…”

“I do. We went over this yesterday, remember? But I will repeat it as often as you need me to. I know what you did, and I love you.”

“I love you too,” John whispered. 

“And I will take these dog-numbers as often as the Machine sends them our way. Until we need a farm to fit them all. Until we need to hire people to take care of them.”

That startled a laugh out of John. “Really?”

“John, I will do absolutely anything to make you happy.” It was probably the most honest thing Finch had ever said to another person, and John looked suitably humbled by the honesty. 

“Me too, Harold. Me too.”


	24. Peace

John was exhausted, but happy. Confused, but content. Restless, but hesitant. In short: he was having more emotions at once than he really knew how to deal with. 

Olli was a little gem, though. Endlessly happy, she didn’t seem to miss her handler at all. And John was happy to give her all the love she wanted. 

Harold, too, seemed quietly content. He was working on something at the table, and John’s curiosity was about to override his caution. 

Rationally he knew that Harold meant it when he said things like ‘love’ and ‘forever’. But emotional certainty would take longer. In the meantime, John resolved to act as if his belief was absolute. He wouldn’t give Harold a reason to doubt his commitment. That, at least, was absolute.

John had found the second person in his life who connected him to the world. Harold had dragged him out of his suicidal resignation once; and now he’d pulled him out into the world once more. Once, he’d believed he’d had a future with Jessica. He knew, looking at Harold, that he had a future with him. 

That certainty acquired, he scratched Olli’s ruff, and got to his feet. 

“What are you doing, Harold?” 

Harold held up a cross between a ball of paper and… “Was that supposed to be a Froebel star?” 

“I can’t make it work!” Harold scowled, annoyed at his failure. 

John smothered a smile. Sometimes Harold bristled like an angry hedgehog, and it made him about as adorable as one. 

“Here.” John sat down and peeled off two fresh sets of strips; passing one to Harold. 

“It’s very important to turn the first weave the right way around.”

***

Two hours and a total of 11 stars later (7 from John’s hands, 4 from Harold’s), John had had enough of stars for a while. Along the way he’d received a gift; the full memory of the very first time Harold had caught him weaving stars. 

Harold had been as adorable and almost completely useless as he was today. The man John loved had many skills. Weaving paper was not one of them. Especially the fiddly business of pushing and pulling the ends through at the end tried his patience to breaking point. 

“It’s okay, Harold,” John echoed what he’d told Finch the first time, but he changed it on the fly. “I promise I love you anyway.” 

Harold blushed and looked down. When he looked back up, his eyes were shining. “You remembered.” 

“Yeah. I guess more memories will keep coming, but I have to admit; I’m kinda glad they’re not all bad.”

“You have more bad memories than most,” Harold agreed. “But they don’t define you.”

“They don’t?” John wished that was true. He didn’t believe it, though. 

“Let’s move this to the couch,” Harold suggested. “I would prefer to be more comfortable.”

John had no objections, and soon they were sitting on the couch, Olli curled up between them. 

“She’ll get spoiled,” Harold warned. 

“Good,” John replied. “I’m not giving her up.”

Harold caved easily, burying his hands in Olli’s lush fur. 

“My mother died when I was quite young. I was an only child, so it was just me and my dad. I don’t remember when I realized not everyone had as much trouble remembering things as my dad.”

He looked down, and John reached out to hold his hand. 

“He had Alzheimers,” Harold continued quietly. “I was 15 when I realized I couldn’t keep him at home any more. I put my dad in a home. He was crying and screaming. He no longer remembered he’d agreed the week before.”

“Harold…” 

“No. Please, John, let me finish.” He waited for John to nod. “I hacked the Pentagon when I was 15. By the time they came for me, I’d fixed my acceptance into MIT, and I needed to disappear. I visited my dad one last time. He didn’t remember me at all.”

Harold took a moment to compose himself. If Olli hadn’t been on the couch between them, John would have hugged him; tried to protect him from his past.

“My point is that that choice doesn’t define me. It is a choice I made in a specific set of circumstances with the ressources and the knowledge I had at the time. It would be wrong to judge my past self harshly based on the knowledge and the resources I have now. Do you see?”

John nodded hesitantly. “I guess.”

“Just as it would be wrong for you to judge your past self too harshly. John. Let me ask you. Would the CIA have fired you or eliminated you, if you’d defied orders?”

“I saved Daniel Casey, and got away with it.”

“Would you have gotten away with it, if your employers hadn’t been distracted by a new case?”

“I like to think so,” John said defiantly. Then gave it a little more thought. “Probably not, though.” 

“The ressources you had, that allowed you to help Casey safely out of the country; how long had you had them in place?”

“Not long,” John admitted.

“Did you have such resources available in other countries?”

John shook his head mutely. 

“So. Could you have saved others?”

John felt as if the questions had wound him too tight. And for a split-second, his fingers slipped. 

“I could have saved any of them!” He roared, startling Olli off the couch, but not having any attention to spare her. Instead he buried his face in his hands, hiding away from Harold. He wished he could hide from himself as well. 

He felt Harold move closer. Wrap his arms around him, at an angle that must be painful for him. John felt bad about that, too, but he was fighting too hard to hold himself together to do anything else.

“Yes,” Harold murmured. “But at what cost?” 

John laughed: a hard, bitter thing. “No cost at all. Not one I didn’t deserve.”

“Oh no, John. No. You would have saved one person - but what about all the others? You think they wouldn’t have died, if you hadn’t pulled the trigger?”

“No,” John admitted into Harolds shoulder, unfolding enough to hide his face there and wrapping his arms around Harold. 

“No,” Harold agreed. “And myself, and all the numbers we’ve saved?” 

“You would've found someone else,” John muttered. ‘Someone better’ he thought, but didn’t say. 

“No. Do you remember the other man who was after Daniel Casey?” 

This startled John into pulling his head out of hiding. “He was yours?”

“Unfortunately, yes. He never cared about the numbers, had an unfortunate habit of sleeping with attractive female victims, and in the end…” 

“Yes?”

“In the end he betrayed me. He got himself killed, trying to sell a laptop to the chinese; the laptop you were later sent to retrieve in China.”

John turned Harold a little to relieve the pressure, and was rewarded by a body relaxing into his arms. Then he hugged Harold tighter. 

“You see, John, you were perfect. Much better for me, and for the numbers than anyone else could have been.”

“Thank you,” John forced out after swallowing twice. “Thank you.”

Harold hugged him tighter in response. “I’ll never give you up, John. Not unless you want to leave. And while you’ll give me the privilege of allowing us to be together, there is nothing I will not do to make you understand that you are loved and worthy of being loved.”

John was humbled. “How can I…” ‘repay you’ sounded so mercenary. ‘Love you’, too sappy. 

“Just accept my help, John. That’s all you need to do.” 

Olli squirmed an enthusiastic head in between them, and Harold pulled back laughing. 

“And maybe settle on a house sooner rather than later, so we can have our bed to ourselves again, at least.”

John laughed, and watched Harold petting Olli vigorously while telling her how good and beautiful and adorable she was. 

“I can do that, Harold,” he promised out loud. And in the silence of his own head he made another promise. Going forward he would be worthy of Harold’s love. Whatever happened. 

And in a server in a distant country, two bits of data sighed at one another, content that they had achieved a happy ending for their two favorite people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned - there might be a bonus chapter tomorrow... ;)


	25. Secret Santas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But wait! What happened to Shaw and Fusco?

This is what happens on the 25th of december, when Shaw picks the lock to the loft. 

She tells Bear to heel and be quiet - but it’s Shaw who gets loud when she sees what is happening on the bed. Involving far more naked flesh than she ever wanted to see of either of them. Finch especially, although she has to admit the man has a *fine* backsid… no. No! 

“Jesus Christ!” She yells. She’s instantly rewarded by flailing, groping for covers (and, *damn* John is well… nope!) and John glaring at her. 

Finch is more resigned. He goes for his glasses, and that’s when a whine and a thump beside her alerts her to the fact there’s another dog in the flat. 

“What the hell?” It’s a lovely, and obviously well-trained shepherd. 

“Go on, Olli,” John sighs. “Say hello to Bear.”

“You’ve got a dog?” 

“Obviously,” Finch says. “Excuse me, miss Shaw, but may I ask what you’re doing breaking in mid-morning?”

“Keeping up my skills,” Shaw claims glibly, watching over Bear like a hawk. But Bear and Olli sniff each-other thoroughly and that is apparently that. The second she unleash him, they are off, galloping around every bit of furniture playing catch. 

She turns back to John and Finch. Finch is now wearing a robe John had obviously held out for him. John glares at her while he drops his duvet, giving her every chance (which she takes, obviously) to look him up and down, until he covers up with his own robe. 

“Well, she says and hefts the heavy bag by her side. “That, and I come bearing gifts.”

“Gifts?” She swears, John is at least part retriever; the man is so happy about things like this. 

“Foodstuffs, mostly,” she clarifies and start unpacking the makings of a small feast. “Fusco’s bringing the presents.”

“Fusco is coming? Here?” Finch is sounding mildly alarmed, but it’s all entertaining to Shaw. 

“Yeah. You boys might want to shower before he gets here.” 

“What is… Why are…? She always enjoys reducing Finch to stutters. She knows he’ll pull himself together in a second, and will be all the more efficient for the delay. 

And right on cue, Finch pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Miss Shaw. Please explain yourself.”

“Fusco doesn’t really have the room for a christmas party; you do. And we decided we didn’t want to spend christmas without the two of you.”

“Fusco’s idea,” John assert, and Shaw grins and nods.

“Well, yeah. But I was happy to go along with it. So if you guys could maybe shower…?

She notices the wicked gleam in Finch’s eyes. His mischief was hidden deep, but it had been one of the things she’d figured out early. The man had a mean sense of humor.

“Certainly. Shall we, John?”

John, on the other hand, wasn’t slow, exactly. But sometimes he needed a moment to catch up. “Sure,” he says agreeably, leaving Shaw with no out but to retaliate.

“Urgh! Separately, boys! The rest of us have to use that bathroom, too!”

“You’re the one who interrupted us, Shaw,” John say, looking like butter wouldn’t melt. 

“If I promise I will knock from here on out, will one of you please get showered and dressed? Lionel’ll be here in half an hour!”

“‘Lionel’, huh?” John says, as he pass her by to get to the bathroom, and Shaw feels herself blush - to her endless annoyance. She is not the blushing kind, dammit! 

“You don’t mind, do you, Harold?” 

Finch blush, too, and Shaw will need brain bleach to get the idea of why that might be out of her head. “No,” Finch answers John. “Not at all. Please.”

Shaw doesn’t miss Finch’s appreciative gaze on John as he vanishes into the bathroom.

“You and John, huh?”

And there is the laser like focus she’s missed from Finch. “Clearly. Do you have a problem with it?”

Shaw is happy she can grin easily. “Nope. Not me. As long as you’re happy, I won’t have to kick either of your asses.”

“Wonderful,” Finch say, sarcasm in full flow. 

“No. Seriously.” Urgh. She hates this emotional shit. But she’s fond enough of both of them to struggle through. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you, miss Shaw. Now. May I help you with anything?”

They work quietly, side by side, until the shower turns off and John emerges again, damp and dressed. Shaw also doesn’t miss the touch of disappointment in Finch’s eyes before he takes his turn in the bathroom.

Fusco is fifteen minutes early, and he arrives ruddy, out of breath, sporting a ridiculous christmas hat, crooked beard and a red jacket trimmed with white fur. He’s also carrying an enormous bag that rattles and thumps as he places it on the floor. 

“I’d have brought a christmas tree,” he says by way of greeting, “but it wouldn’t fit.”

“It’s fine,” John says and points. “We’ve got one already.”

“Great.” Fusco nods at Finch coming out of the bathroom. He turns to lug the gifts over to the tree. “You gonna help me or what?”

But John’s distracted by Finch looking soft and approachable, and coming closer at a steady pace. Shaw holds her breath as Finch reaches up, and John bends obediently to meet him at an angle that won’t hurt Finch’s neck. Shaw smiles sappily, as Fusco almost stumbles. 

“Really?”

Finch gives him a lofty look once he releases his liplock with John. “Do you have a problem Detective?”

“What the hell?” Fusco said, “how little do you think of me, huh? You think I’m some kind of bigot or something?”

“Of course we don’t, Lionel.” John’s sudden turn to peacemaker was one of the surprises of his return. 

“Well good!” Fusco huffs. “The nerve of you people, I swear. You’re gonna give me an ulcer or something.”

“Oh, give it a rest, Lionel.” Shaw decided to take matters into her own hands. Meeting Fusco again had been a surprise. She hadn’t expected to feel so… comfortable around the fat detective. She had definitely not expected all the muscle he packed in there as well. 

“What? You too, Princess?” One less charming trait of Fuscos was that he tended to think everyone was against him. She expected she could train him out of it. In time. 

So for now she walked up to him, grabbed him by his synthetic fur lapels, and kissed him. Deeply. Thoroughly. Kissed him until he wrapped her up and started kissing her back properly. Oh, yeah. She wasn’t giving this up! 

She came up for air to the sight of Finch’s inquisitive eyebrow. “Really?” He drawled. 

“Really. Now get those gifts under the tree, boys; I need someone to set the table.”

As she turn, she checks on Bear. He’s sharing his old bed with Olli. They’re laying almost on top of each other, and watching their humans with doggy grins. 

Yeah, Shaw thinks. This is one christmas where nobody’s lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you’ve all had a wonderful Christmas. <3


End file.
